Travelling Without Moving
by sadlady
Summary: Even though john Coogan is dead, Doyle still lives with the memory.


Usual Disclaimer

I don't own the characters of Bodie and Doyle, or any others from the TV series. They belong to Mark One Productions and Brian Clemens.

I borrow them to write fiction for my own (and hopefully your) pleasure, with no financial gain to myself or anyone else

**Travelling Without Moving**

Doyle was distinctly unhappy at being back in the New Forest area so soon after his last visit.

Physically healed and as fit as ever, thanks to Macklin's ministrations, he couldn't shake off the feeling of unease that had enveloped him since his return.

A week before, Bodie and Doyle had been sitting in their boss's office, while Cowley outlined their next job.

"We found some papers in John Coogan's house which proved interesting," said Cowley. Doyle groaned at the name of his captor and abuser.

"Aye Doyle. I know a return to his home is the last thing you want, but it's the job laddie. Coogan's dead, but he was involved in a number of nefarious schemes and we need to know how many pies he had his sticky little fingers in."

Doyle had shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. His partner looked across at him, noting the tense shoulders, and the pale face. Doyle got up and walked out of the room. He turned around assuming his partner would follow, but Bodie raised a hand.

"Be with you in a minute. Gotta see about my overtime."

Doyle said nothing and mooched off down the hall. As soon as he was out of earshot, Bodie rounded on their boss.

"You can't send him back there sir." His voice was strained with barely controlled anger.

"And why not?" retorted Cowley. "He's one hundred percent fit. Dr Ross, for all her machinations has also pronounced Doyle fit for duty. Why do you assume you know better than them?"

Bodie stood his ground, jaw set and his eyes cold as ice.

"Because sir, I know Doyle. He is physically fit and perfectly capable of working this case . . ."

"So why are we having this conversation then Bodie? If you agree that Doyle is willing and able to accompany you back to Coogan's house, there is no more to be said."

Bodie balled his fists. Sometimes the old man could be so unreasonable!

"Maybe sir, he would appreciate someone else investigating the house. You ask us to jump through hoops for Queen and country, without question. There aren't many men who would willingly revisit the scene of their own torture especially when there are others who could do the job as well!"

"Thank you Bodie. Your comments are noted. Now on your way please. You shouldn't need more than a couple of days to tidy things up." Cowley turned away from his agent and picked up a file from his desk.

Bodie turned smartly on his heel and stormed out of the room. Betty looked up as he marched past her, brows furrowed and a look of anger darkening his face.

He found Doyle sipping tea in the rest room. Doyle motioned towards another mug of stewed brown liquid and arched an eyebrow.

"I heard you," he said. "You didn't have to do that," he said.

Bodie flung himself onto an old armchair.

"Sometimes I wonder what runs through that man's veins. It certainly isn't blood. More like ice water."

"I'm OK you know," replied Doyle."I just would rather not go back to Coogan's place. I get tired of returning to the scenes of my failures."

Bodie said nothing but glowered at his partner.

"Come on sunshine. Go home and pack your nightie and toothbrush, and we'll be on our way." Doyle tried to inject some humour into the proceedings. A long drive with Bodie in one of his sulks would try anyone's patience.

The drive through London and out towards Hampshire was accomplished in almost total silence. Doyle drove and Bodie seethed. They stopped for a brief lunch at a roadside pub. Over a lager and a plate of sandwiches, Doyle tried again to get Bodie to understand how he felt. It was like hitting his head against a brick wall. Eventually, exasperated and tired he gave up.

"Bodie, give it up will you! There's no reason to keep going over it. I'm fit, healthy and ready to go back to work. After all, it was me Coogan wanted to get even with. I'm not saying I want to go back to his place, but . . . as Cowley said . . . he's dead and it's over. Why can't **you** let it go?"

Bodie raised his eyes and looked steadily at his partner.

"That's it then? You're OK and Cowley can order you around again. Christ, Ray, do you have any idea at all . . ." he stopped abruptly and waved his arm as if warning off any further comment.

They got back in the car and carried on their way.

By late afternoon they had arrived in the New Forest. Betty, obviously aware of Doyle's recent adventure, and his lack of enthusiasm for the job, had booked them into a hotel in the forest, some miles from Coogan's palatial eyesore. Prepared to argue the expense with her boss, she had chosen one with a swimming pool and leisure club.

The partners were shown to their rooms, and agreed to meet in the bar later.

Doyle unpacked quickly and walked across the room. He was pleasantly surprised to find a pair of doors leading out onto a small balcony. Kicking off his shoes, he sat down and stuck his feet on the railings.

"There's always someone making the place look untidy," came a voice from the next balcony. Bodie stuck his head round the corner and surveyed the scene.

"Just having a few minutes to meself," replied Doyle, eyes closed and face turned towards the setting sun. "Work tomorrow!"

Bodie scowled at the reference to the reason they were there and disappeared from view.

It was a warm spring evening, although it was early April. Doyle lay back in the chair, and took in the scene. The hotel was set in the Forest just outside of the village of Brockenhurst. Across a large expanse of common ground, there was a road running from the village to Lymington.

Doyle felt himself begin to relax. The drive down hadn't been pleasant, and Bodie was definitely not himself. However, the quiet and peaceful Forest began to work its magic. Sleepily, Doyle ran through the recent events that had befallen him.

He had been greatly upset at the death of John Coogan's younger brother. He had been absolved of all blame, the death being the outcome of self defence, but it hung heavily with Doyle that the situation had happened at all. He took little comfort when it had been shown that John Coogan was responsible for the internal injuries that led to his brother's death.

He accepted the violence that was sadly part and parcel of his job, without guilt. But with that acceptance, a fervent belief that it was sometimes necessary. He reminded himself that without such men as Bodie, Murphy and the other agents, the UK would be a less lovely place to live.

John Coogan had served a minimum sentence thanks to the misplaced belief of his lawyer, Geraldine Mather, that he was provoked. Her excellent skills persuaded the jury of the same thing. Coogan had served his time and on release had simply disappeared. After a couple of years, he was found to be living in Spain, and then on his return to the UK, he had purchased a large, garish and out of the way home in the New Forest.

It was only when he had let slip to Geraldine Mather his plan to pay back Doyle for the death of his younger brother, that she had realised her client was a very dangerous man. Before she could pass on the information, Coogan had traced Doyle and followed him to Hampshire, capturing him before he could start a planned holiday.

Doyle winced at the memory of the couple of days he'd spent at Coogan's house. He'd been kept in the stable block, beaten, threatened with all manner of punishment for his alleged 'crime' before being taken out deep into the Forest and left to die.

The memories came flooding back so real that for a split second Doyle thought he was still there. He sat up quickly and opened his eyes.

Feeling foolish, he went back into his room. Using the tea making facilities, he made a cup of hot sweet tea and took it back to the balcony. The beverage revived him, and for a while he watched the antics of the ponies, as they meandered along the road and onto the green.

He started to read a book from the small stock in his room. "The Branded Cowboy" wasn't really his cup of tea, and it soon got discarded. He noted that evening was drawing in. There were the faintest pinpricks from the stars showing, and the cars had begun switching on their headlights.

Reluctant to leave the balcony, Doyle rested his arms along the rail and let his mind wander.

The days after his rescue seemed hazy. '_Probably _he thought ruefully_, because I was full of painkillers.'_

Bodie, who had only been slightly injured, had taken himself off to Claire's flat. His visits to Doyle in the hospital were regular and when Doyle floated in and out of sleep Bodie was usually there, sitting quietly in the chair, reading a newspaper or just looking at his partner.

The efforts to get fit were left to Macklin. The former agent had devised a routine of exercises and movements designed to work Doyle's aching joints and muscles gently and thoroughly. Dr Ross, had taken him through a series of mental tests and counselling, designed to let him talk himself back into a healthy frame of mind. All in all, Doyle thought he'd done pretty well.

What he hadn't told anyone, even Bodie, was the first nights at home alone; the waking up, sweat sheened and terrified that Coogan would come back and start the relentless beating again. Doyle knew it wasn't going to happen, but couldn't persuade his unconscious mind of the fact. He spent more hours awake than asleep at first, unwilling to call anyone for support.

During those early days Doyle thought about leaving CI5. He wondered if he would ever be able to do the job again. His mind was full of questions; what if he let Bodie down, supposing he froze when confronted with yet another gunman, vicious thug or terrorist. It seemed he was on a roller coaster he couldn't get off.

One evening, dreading the prospect of yet another restless night, he lay dozing on the sofa. The TV was off, nothing worth watching, and he'd had more than a sensible amount of whisky. It was around ten thirty when the buzzer to his door began its tune.

Anxiously he padded across the room and pressed the button.

"Who is it?"

"Doyle? It's me Macklin. Can I come up?"

Doyle was puzzled. He liked the welfare and fitness officer very much, but they seldom ever met outside the gym or training ground. He pressed the door release and waited for his guest to arrive.

Macklin made himself comfy in Doyle's small flat. He was a big man, broad and tall. Blond hair and blue eyed. Doyle knew very little about him, other than he had worked for Cowley in the Far East.

"How are you doing Ray?" he asked.

Doyle shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

"So-so, thanks. Be better when I'm back in harness."

Macklin gave a wide smile.

"OK Doyle. Shall we try that again? How are you?"

Doyle was taken aback - he was sure no-one knew of his nightly struggles.

Macklin sat back in an armchair and looked around the flat.

"Any chance of a cuppa Ray. You look like you could do with one yourself."

Doyle quickly prepared two mugs of tea and brought them into the living room.

Macklin took a deep swallow and pronounced the tea perfect.

"Now Doyle. I'm not going to beat about the bush, but I reckon you're having a spot of bother. Out of hospital . . . by yourself . . . got an attack of the night terrors have you?"

Doyle stared at the man.

"How did you know? Bodie opened his mouth has he?"

Macklin, relaxed and at ease watched the young agent.

"No mate. Nothing like that. Bodie would rather tear his tongue out than suggest you weren't coping. I know Doyle, because I can see the half empty whisky bottle over there, which is not like you, and I've been through the same thing myself. Gut shot in Hong Kong. I recovered, but oh those early days! Frightened the life out of myself, waking up screaming, sweating and thrashing about. No Mrs Macklin then either, to help."

Doyle sat there open mouthed. In a million years, he could not picture the trainer ever being less than in total control.

"Yeah, it's been difficult lately. I know Coogan isn't going to come for me, but that doesn't make it any easier. What if I let the team down? Freeze and can't cover my partner?" He pushed his hand through his curly hair. With his hair away from his face Macklin noted how thin he was, his pallor, and the shadows under his eyes.

Macklin drank the tea.

"Doyle, you'll get over it. At the moment it's too fresh, too new. Years ago, the bad guys almost had a sign on them saying 'arrest me'. Nowadays things are more complicated. Drugs, terrorism, diplomatic incidents - that's what we're up against now. Sadists like Coogan are kept in line by bigger men. They're still out there, but controlled by gangs and dubious businessmen. People who want someone to do their dirty work while keeping themselves clean and shiny. Nowadays if such a thug gets out of control, another thug quietly deals with it. Makes our job easier."

Doyle sat back while Macklin continued. He made no further mention of their work, but told Doyle of his time in Hong Kong, and how he met George Cowley and the early days of CI5. He talked long into the night, and Doyle began to realise his fears and concerns were unfounded, and in time he would be free of them.

It was after midnight, when Macklin stood up, yawned and made his farewell.

"The lovely Mrs Macklin will not be pleased. It's way past my bedtime."

"Didn't know there was a lovely Mrs Macklin," replied Doyle laughing quietly.

Macklin looked down at the smaller man. His eyes were gentle.

"Oh yes, there is. The most wonderful woman a man could wish for. Ex-nurse. From Hong Kong."

With that, he left. Doyle closed the door, set the locks and alarms and went to bed. He slept through until morning.

His reveries were interrupted by a smart knock on his bedroom door. He hastened over and opened it to find Bodie, clean and spruce waiting for him.

"C'mon Doyle I'm starving. Did you fall asleep? It's almost eight o clock you know."

The partners made their way down to the bar, where they ordered drinks and food. They found a table by the window and sat down. Bodie was fidgeting, a sure sign he had something on his mind.

"What's up with you?" asked Doyle, as Bodie rearranged the cruet set for the third time in as many minutes.

"Er, I know I've been a bit of a tosser today . . ."

"More like a three year old if you ask me," Doyle interrupted.

Bodie glared at him but was unable to hold it and his face broke into a huge grin.

"Yeah well! I was worried about you mate. I told Cowley it was a bad idea coming back here. Murphy could have done the investigating. Given you a break from it."

Doyle sat back and regarded his friend and partner with affection.

"Bodie. I'm fine. There's no need to keep going over it . . ."

Now Bodie interrupted him.

"Doyle, you didn't see what you looked like that night. When Coogan came for us, I watched him thrash you to within an inch of your life. He was manic! He was drooling each time he hit you. I had to watch you try and get out of his way, slipping and sliding in the snow. It was the first time I thought we both might not make it."

Doyle put his hand up, fending off the words.

"But we did Bodie, didn't we. It's what we do. To be honest, afterwards I did think about chucking it all in. I lost my nerve for a while. What if I couldn't back you up, or I caused the death of one of our own. But someone helped me see it in perspective. I thought it all through."

Bodie looked perplexed. It was unlike Doyle to get all deep and mystical on him.

Doyle looked at his partner's quizzical expression - Bodie was obviously having trouble understanding him.

"Bodie, give it rest, you'll hurt yourself trying to figure it out. I'm OK, you're OK. I've done the journey, travelling without moving" he said mysteriously.

"OK sunshine, if you say so. Can't stop me from looking out for a mate though."

Doyle smiled.

"No mate. That's something else we do."


End file.
